hazel

a

His hand, though, abruptly gave in at that moment and slipped up, taking the pillow along in its shift. The prisoner's mouth was free now, only her eyes and nose still covered.

At this desperately hoped for chance, she wasted no breath in taking hasty, lungful gulps of fresh air and wettening her dry lips, before stringing him a loop of foul curses, still struggling to thresh free. The pillow suddenly slid side ways, and so did the hand that had gripped it. Sid's gaze had unwittingly dropped to her lips. He stomached a queer ripple. His own tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

". . . . are you even listening?" Startled, he slowly closed his eyes. Fuck.

What was that?

"Sid, what's wrong?" He felt her still under him, her voice worried.

"Uh, nothing. Nothing, I just –" Sid had parted his eyes, endeavouring to rug the strange moment under a spur of moment absurdity, when, suddenly, he found the shapely, ample pink lips he had been admiring a shock ago, irrationally close to hers. She had lifted herself a little, as much as she could have within that closed space, her face tilted, and cerulean eyes scanning her best friend anxiously.

His mouth parched.

Fuck, what was happening? This had never occurred before, and they had often come just as close, playfully, as this in the past.

Then why now? Why was he having this senseless urge to clutch the rebellious curls of his friend, and kiss the flipping heart out of her?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Sid. Sid," Sid found himself helpless in practicing restrain, his eyes transfixed on her lips as they moved with concerned calls of his name, his own burdening a sudden ache to be over them, ensnaring them, biting, nipping, sucking, devouring . . . .

How had he never before noticed how full, and plump they were? How smooth and enticing her wrist's skin felt underneath Sid's palm, and its now loosened hold? How . . .?

No! Fucking Stop!

He sprung away from her, singed, the close proximity making his mind heady and out of control.

Close proximity. That's it. That has to be it.

Sid greedily swallowed mouthfuls of the crisp, chilly air that rushed to prick his face as soon as he had tore himself away from the snug encasing that they'd tinkered around each other. Eyes squeezed close, he could feel the fever in his cheek all the way to his toenails.

"Darn it Sid, would you just tell me what's wrong? You're fucking scaring me."

But he could only swallow. How could he ever look at his best friend – at someone who held the key to an entirely another reality's realm, one that he too had held till now, sure that it was the sole one to fit his lock – again . . . after . . . ?

"Sid," His breath hitched. He could feel her voice, soft now, so much softer, carresing her from a much closer distance than he remembered building. His eyes scrunched up even more tightly together. He wanted to shout. Shout at Samantha to not come any nearer; or he won't be able to keep himself afar. Shout at himself for even feeling this way. Shout at something. Anything.

He had been dragged through these precise feelings three years before. All those days ago, battling to be still in his skin, to ride the light - flowing on a different wind lane - that had gotten caught in his lashes. Again, now, they screeched piercingly in his ears.

His whole being iced, though, when her two soft palms felt either side of his cheeks. He was ultra sensitive to the gentle pressure, the warm skin, now more than ever.

Her words were quieter, dangerously quieter, and, damn her, so so deliciously closer.

His spine, ice fractured, broke out in cold creeps.

He wanted to sprint away, skedaddle out of the room, and keep fleeing till he had left all these feelings, and wants, and thoughts far behind . . . till he had crashed with her, till her lips clasped with his, till his arm pulled her close, close, so close and closer still, till —

". . . I'm so sorry, so fucking sorry, if I did something, because . . ."

He jolted, his eyes flying open at the sudden proximity of her voice. They bulged when they mapped the almost end of the rift. Her deeply dark blue eyes as if peeking inside his tremoring fantasies.

Her forehead was almost touching his now, her palm's hold tightening just a bit.

"Stay with me, Sid. You keep zoning out. Look at me. God, Sid, please just look at me."

Could she not tell? Could she not feel him checking her out?

He felt her warm breath on his lips. He felt ablazed, alit. He smouldered for he knew not what, but what he did know was, that it was clawed from dark. Clawed from dark, and heady, and flaming, and blind. Something wickedly ensorcelling.

His eyes slowly travelled up the slender woman's plump, succulent lips, up her small, straight nose, to leisurely hook on to the darkly tinted shade of blues, that had always been his mistletoe's berry, ripened by the tears of the goddess Frigg, as she wept for her dying son, who was shot by the foe's arrow made of mistletoe, and a blessing that she gave to those parasitic plants over the joy of his revival. Some might, and did believe, that Balderton could not be saved, that happy ending was simply a ruse that had evolved over romantic times. But for Sid, a mother's tears could never not heal, could never not cure, could never not win.

Jones wasn't the kiss-blessed berries of the mistletoe, but the seamless, devoted love of a mother; angelic and sacred, so pure and earnest, a sincere prayer. His healing drizzle on a scorching day, when he would get stranded barefoot on a road. Always had been a source of courage, motherly care, a genuine smile, homly warmth, and, quite simply, his life. The most sturdy, and innocent of a bond it was, the one between them. He hardly knew a time where her warmth didn't approach to seep inside it.

But now, mingling with those time, were other kinds of warmth.

Of a desirous ache, a wanting need, a mad . . .

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